


take solace from guilt

by darthpumpkinspice



Series: do not repent for these deeds [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Guilt, Keevan hates everyone, M/M, sex to annoy a third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: Damar returns to his quarters to discover not one, but two Vorta making themselves at home, and he quickly learns Keevan is a poor substitute for Weyoun.
Relationships: Damar/Keevan (Star Trek), Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek), Keevan & Weyoun
Series: do not repent for these deeds [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084316
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	take solace from guilt

**Author's Note:**

> soooo once again i've decided to write a Weyoun/Damar fic that leans heavily into angst! earlier fics in this pairing/series being [fleeting reprieve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27695020) and [pretend for a moment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013547). I AM seriously contemplating (and have started to draft out the earliest of rough drafts) writing a multi-chapter fic set post-season 7 with a surviving Damar/Weyoun 9 that I pinky promise will be much sweeter and with an eventual happy ending!! but for now, you get stuck with bittersweet Dayoun and Keevan/Damar where Keevan hates everyone (i sincerely apologize)
> 
> also to clarify, the Keevan in this fic is the next clone of the one in DS9, but they act basically identical so for all intents and purposes it's the same Keevan 
> 
> side note, I quite enjoy writing Weyoun as someone who thinks of Damar as both a Coworker He Hates and also a Psuedo-Boyfriend He Rather Likes and being annoyed and bewildered that Damar can't compartmentalize in the same way

With a worrisome indifference, Damar contemplates the possibility he’s having a psychotic break. He’s overdue for a mental breakdown, he reasons matter-of-factly, as panic sluggishly works to catch up to with the rest of his thoughts. Frankly, he considers it something of a minor miracle he hadn’t completely snapped months ago. Maybe he’ll be shuttled off to an asylum – a notion that, currently, does not provoke much emotion in him save for a resigned relief, and a dull concern over the fact that _asylum_ sounds a little too synonymous with _vacation_ at the moment.

Cautiously, he advances further into his living quarters, moving closer to the center of the room where a hallucination of two Weyoun’s seem to have taken residence. Then he blinks, squints, and the reality of the situation smacks him squarely in the face – and it is much more horrifying than the possibility he’s simply lost his mind. There’s a second Vorta with Weyoun, alike in all the superficial ways – they share the same death-pale skin and unnatural eyes – but now that Damar’s moved closer, it’s apparent that _this_ is distinctly not another member of the Weyoun line of clones. This particular Vorta has a lazy, hunched posture Damar is not sure Weyoun’s spine could physical accommodate, and there’s a permanent sneer affixed to his face that does not seem remotely appropriate for diplomatic assignments.

The new Vorta notices Damar first and his features contort with derision, as if _Damar_ is the one intruding into _his_ space. Slower, Weyoun follows his brethren’s gaze and greets him a broad smile. “ _Damar_ ,” he cries, opening his arms wide in an overly effusive welcome.

It’s enough to send a burst of paranoid energy into Damar’s muscles, and he tenses, alarm bells ringing urgently in his mind as he stares down at his visitors. The unfamiliar Vorta huffs out an exasperated breath, and turns on his heel to fix Weyoun with a pleading look. “Can I leave now?”

“No,” Weyoun hisses between his teeth, smiling apologetically at Damar. “Keevan, meet Legate Damar. Damar – Keevan has been assigned to a Jem’Hadar warship patrolling this sector, and the Founders, in all their infinite wisdom-” his smile tightens almost imperceptibly “-have deemed it appropriate to give him the... lay of the land, so to speak.”

“Oh?” Damar asks, feigning curiosity. He scans the room, noting that the Vorta have already cracked open his liquor cabinet – the kanar is untouched, but several glasses have been removed and arranged without any clear purpose on the floor. He reaches over to grab the nearest exposed bottle of kanar, and on an afterthought a glass as well, uncorking the bottle and pouring himself a generous amount. The liquid fills up slowly, as thick as clotted blood, and Damar thinks he might almost be repulsed if he didn’t crave its sweet, numb relief with the desperation of a drowning man gasping for air. “Where are you being deployed, Keevan?”

Keevan opens his mouth to respond, but Weyoun cuts him off with a warning glare. “I’m afraid that’s classified,” he tells Damar breezily.

The all-to-casual reminder that, for all Damar’s impressive title and position, he’s little more than a glorified paper-pusher for the Dominion, stings, but it’s been an exhausting day and the most outrage he can currently muster is a muted annoyance. “Understood,” he says stiffly, his knuckles paling to a light gray as he clenches on his glass. “Well met, Keevan. I’d say to make yourself at home but….” He gestures expansively at the mess already accumulating in his living room. “It seems you were one step ahead of me.”

“It’s a _true_ pleasure to be in such illustrious company,” Keevan drawls in response, the greeting devoid of even a hint of sincerity. Weyoun scowls at the other Vorta outright, and this time he makes no attempt to rein his expression back to placid neutrality. Kanar blunts the edge of Damar’s anger, but he’s still cognizant of being subtly insulted: Weyoun’s free display of emotion is a tacit statement that there is nobody in this room he believes he needs to _impress_. Sourly, Damar takes another swig from his glass as he finds himself rooting for the new Vorta – this walking, talking personification of apathetic scorn – in whatever petty rivalry he seems to have with Weyoun. His mind changes somewhat as the new Vorta lets out a long, petulant sigh, but nevertheless the promise of getting to spectate as two unlikable and mutually antagonistic Vorta engage in passive aggressive combat is an entertaining prospect.

Damar chuckles to himself as he hastily strategizes his next move. “Weyoun,” he begins, aiming for a politely interested tone that instead lands closer to sarcastically simpering. Fortunately, it doesn’t matter: vanity has always been Weyoun’s most easily accessible weakness. Just the insinuation of getting to be the center of attention has Weyoun looking up at him hopefully, practically unfurling in his regard like a night-blooming flower. It’s almost too easy, and Damar shifts uncomfortably at the realization that his familiarity with Weyoun, and all the Vorta’s quirks and petty affectations, has long since evolved past a professional acquaintance into something much more intimate. He suspects that revelation will keep him up tonight, but for now he pushes the thought away before the horror of it has time to settle in, and trudges onwards. “Have you told your-” he hesitates, drawing a blank on the name “-compatriot of your most recent accomplishment on Cardassia?”

The new Vorta – _Keevan_ , his mind belatedly supplies - has adopted an expression of pure dread.

“ _Well_ , it would be immodest to brag,” Weyoun demurs, his eyes sparkling in a way that makes it evident there’s _nothing_ he’d rather do than to brag, “but I _did_ recently win a game of Kotra against Gul Ter.”

Damar chokes on another sip of kanar, and has a mild coughing fit. “Not that,” he croaks out, trying to guide Weyoun onto a topic that he predicts Keevan will find more aggravating, " _military_ accomplishments, Weyoun.”

Weyoun looks vaguely crestfallen, and from the imploring look he shoots in Damar’s direction, Damar knows he’ll be subjected to a long-winded play-by-play of the Kotra match at a point in the near future. But for now, Weyoun takes the bait, and gamely begins to chatter on about some raid of a Klingon shipbuilding operation.

Damar risks a glance at Keevan, and with no small satisfaction watches as the other Vorta begins to seethe with transparent resentment. It is not long before it boils over. “Impressive you managed to find the time to actually _win_ something for the Dominion, in-between all of this _playing house_ on Cardassia,” he sneers.

Weyoun laughs at this, flashing a smile that is a work of art: exquisitely cultivated into being as obnoxiously condescending as possible. “Oh Keevan,” he titters. “It might be difficult for you to comprehend, but on the off-chance you stumble into a position like mine – with all of the burdens and glories these responsibilities entail – you’ll realize how important _multi-tasking_ becomes.” His lip curls with more open disdain. “I’m sure you’ll have time to meditate on that thought the next time one of your clones finds themselves in a Federation prison.”

Keevan rolls his eyes blatantly at that remark, and Damar realizes while he _likes_ this Vorta about as much as an infected hangnail, he does appreciate his flagrant disregard for the typical diplomatic niceties, particularly in contrast to Weyoun’s carefully constructed mask of faux-civility. Damar has never been especially skilled in the political arts himself, nor ever refined the ability to disguise his emotions under layers of feigned courtesy. It’s gratifying to find a Vorta so open in his contempt – if Damar has to play with sandvipers, he’d prefer ones that didn’t try to hide their fangs.

More heated now, two Vorta have begun to snip at each other with overt aggression, and with a sense of well-deserved pride, Damar slinks back, settling himself into a spindly chair at the edge of the room as he takes another long drink from his glass. Tragically, the aftermath of his victory does not prove quite as relaxing as he’d pictured. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat; the chair is old and the padding that has long since been flattened, causing his shoulder blades to jab into the inner metal cross rails. He sulks, scowling down into his kanar glass and wishing he’d had the foresight to junk the chair years ago, replacing it with a more ergonomic one – all the better to appreciate the fruits of his labor in style.

When he looks back up, he realizes with frustrated disappointment that Weyoun and Keevan appear to have given up on their argument and drifted to separate corners of the room. He swallows down the last of his kanar miserably, trying to wash away the aching bitterness that has begun to crawl up his chest and into his throat. He stares into the empty glass for a long moment, slowly lowering it to the ground and resisting the sudden, reckless impulse to let it drop and shatter. There is something indescribably perverse in watching not just one but _two_ Vorta making themselves comfortable in Damar’s quarters. This is _his_ home, his sanctuary, the _only_ thing he can still name as _his_ and _his alone_ – and yet here it is, being defiled and plundered by the Dominion. His skin prickles in the chilled air, and he realizes they must’ve modified the temperature down from Cardassian standard – a trivial insult compared to everything else the Dominion has done, but one that still manages to sting.

As he watches, the sneering Vorta drapes himself lengthwise over Damar’s couch – his favorite possession; it’s a burnished bronze, the color sand dunes turn under a sinking sun, and it’s exceedingly comfortable. Keevan props up booted feet onto the armrest and Damar can almost feel the Vorta’s ooze staining further into his life, polluting everything around him. They have intruded on his private quarters and contaminated them in the same greedy, thoughtless way they’ve forced themselves onto Cardassia and contaminated her. Not for the first or the last time, Damar finds himself resenting the unholy pact Dukat signed with the Dominion with a dizzying ferocity that makes acid churn in his stomach. Dukat let himself be seduced by the promise of power the Dominion dangled in front of him, just as Damar has allowed himself be seduced by –

As if summoned by his thoughts, Weyoun suddenly materializes on Damar’s left. “I apologize most sincerely for my, ah, colleague’s poor manners,” he murmurs, glaring murderously at the younger Vorta, who’s now whistling tunelessly on the couch. “His line specializes in field supervision, nothing as delicate as true diplomacy. We must make some allowances.”

Damar raises a brow. “I was under the impression _your_ first four predecessors were field supervisors.”

 _Revulsion_ isn’t an adequate descriptor for the look that crosses Weyoun’s smooth face. His nose wrinkles dramatically and his lips purse, as if Damar has just attempted (and subsequently failed at) an impromptu cartwheel. “You’ve been doing your research,” he says icily. Then he blinks, and the frost in his expression melts into a well-practiced, patronizing smile. “The Founders saw fit to bless my line with multiple talents. But Keevan’s genetic makeup is… more limited.” 

Damar spares a quick glance back at the Vorta in question, who’s currently migrated off the couch to begin arranging a precarious looking pyramid from Damar’s collection of glassware. He seems faintly entranced by the way the light glimmers prismatic off the glasses, creating a halo of ambient, rainbow color around the structure, and he extends an experimental finger, poking at his creation. It wobbles dangerously, and Damar winces at the thought of it toppling over. He’s not especially concerned about the potential loss of the glasses themselves; they were a wedding present from his wife – and whatever sentimental value they used to possess has dissipated over the years as the initial love in their marriage curdled into a stale, distant contempt. Still, Damar doesn’t relish the thought of scraping up shards of shattered glass from the floor.

“Keevan,” he declares. “Is an idiot.”

Weyoun doesn’t seem keen to disagree. He trails a quick hand up the length of Damar’s arm, his fingers lingering provocatively on the side of his neck, and Damar shivers at the unexpected contact. “What do you want from me?” Damar blurts out, his tongue loosened by the kanar. Heat flushes inside him as he tilts his head up to gaze at Weyoun, who’s now standing so still he could almost be mistaken for a statue.

Weyoun’s perfect, marble features betray no trace of emotion as he says simply, “Nothing at all.” And with that, he withdraws his hand. The flush of embarrassment congeals into a viscous anger, and Damar averts his gaze before the destructive impulse to open his mouth strikes him again.

His eyes end up drifting to Keevan, and the Vorta seems to feel the weight of his stare, turning to look back at Damar. Keevan’s eyes blaze hot with a generalized, opportunistic sort of hatred – the kind that simmers under the skin, waiting impatiently for the chance to be directed against a target. That indiscriminately malicious gaze flickers between Damar and Weyoun, and Keevan’s expression sharpens with primitive cunning as a look of _understanding_ washes over him.

What he sees, exactly, Damar is not sure. But whatever it is proves enough to prompt him to rise to feet and stalk towards Damar. His movements are as lithe and loping as a hunting cat, and without any formality Keevan plops himself down directly into his lap, his arms draping lazily over Damar’s shoulders, his legs splaying alluringly wide. The kanar in Damar’s belly conspires with his residual anger at Weyoun, and Keevan suddenly transforms from an irksome brat into a rather attractive emotional outlet. In his peripheries, he notes with petty delight that Weyoun has recoiled away from them.

Keevan repositions himself on Damar’s lap, reclaiming his attention, the heavy fabric of his robes pooling around Damar’s thighs. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and despite the suggestive way he’s flung himself over Damar, he looks both intensely bored and also in desperate need of a nap.

“You smell like kanar,” he complains, eyes dark with disdain even as he shifts lewdly against Damar’s hardening cock.

“Very astute,” Damar smirks, tightening his hands around Keevan’s waist. The Vorta intakes a sharp breath at this, but makes no attempt to dislodge himself from Damar’s grip. “I’m always amazed by your kind’s perceptive talents.”

Keevan only offers an insolent smile. “Fortunately,” he purrs, wearing a lascivious expression that looks disturbingly out-of-place on a Vorta, “we have other _abilities_ at our disposal.” And with that, he grinds himself against Damar’s groin without even a token attempt at subtlety. There’s no grace or even particular skill in his crude gyrations, and from the quick glances Keevan keeps flashing in Weyoun’s direction, Damar suspects he’s doing this primarily to scandalize the other Vorta. He finds himself sympathetic to this motivation.

“Why don’t you show me?” Damar offers, amused. He grabs a handful of Keevan’s ass, squeezing, and is rewarded with a lazy grin.

They’re interrupted by a cough, and Weyoun is suddenly standing beside them entirely too close for comfort. “I’m delighted to see how well you’re both getting along,” he says venomously. “How wonderful to be able to witness this display of interspecies… cooperation.”

Keevan doesn’t bother to look up at Weyoun. “Doesn’t a Vorta of your importance have better things to do?” he asks mockingly. “I’m sure there’s a dignitary somewhere you’re supposed to be kowtowing to.”

Damar cannot help but let his gaze wander up to Weyoun. As he watches, a frission of unreadable emotion cracks the Vorta’s poised visage, after beat Weyoun straightens, squaring his shoulders. “There’s always work to be done,” he agrees stiffly. “Enjoy your… company.”

Weyoun turns on his heel and moves for the door. Damar could not claim to know what possesses him in this moment, but before he can think twice he’s pushing Keevan out of his lap and sprinting to catch up with Weyoun before he can leave. He feels Keevan’s eyes burning into the back of his skull, but he ignores this, stumbling to an undignified halt in front of Weyoun.

Weyoun looks at him for a long moment, and Damar’s lips part, searching in vain for words that do not come. After another beat of silence, this one heavier than the first, Weyoun’s expression tightens. “Goodnight, Damar,” he hisses.

“Fine,” Damar snaps. “Goodnight.”

Weyoun’s eyes briefly flicker past Damar to Keevan, and then his hand shoots out with blurring, sandviper speed, grasping his arm and giving it an unexpectedly possessive squeeze. Damar’s heart stutters in his chest, and his breath catches in his throat as his entire body snaps to attention. There is no true strength in the Vorta’s slim hand – if he were so inclined, Damar could shake him loose just by tensing his bicep – but in this moment those fingers might as well have bones of titanium alloy. It is as if Weyoun is standing over a gravitational well, rooting Damar in his orbit.

“Release me,” Damar demands, in a voice that sounds entirely too brittle.

Weyoun stares at him, his eyes narrowed with calculated intent. Damar finds himself gripped by a terrible, alien impulse to bend down and kiss him, and he finds there is a part of himself, more vocal than he’d like to admit, that has started to pray that Weyoun will refuse, and that the hand on his arm will tighten instead. That part finds itself swiftly disappointed as Weyoun’s removes his hand and schools his features back into an expression of polite amusement. “Very well,” he says. He looks to Keevan, and his mouth spasms with distaste. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Don’t be late.” And with that, he presses his palm to the door panel. With a mechanical sigh it ghosts open and light from the hallway spills in to frame Weyoun, making him look almost ethereal before he spins around and leaves without another word.

The door closes, and Damar swallows thickly, trying to dislodge the lump of bitter yearning that sits in his throat heavy as a stone. He fails, and resigned, turns back to Keevan who has adopted a cross-legged position on the floor.

Keevan stretches, rising to glide over to Damar. “How do you want me?” he asks. It’s the sort of question Damar might find enticingly sensual had it not come from a Vorta who’s currently more absorbed in examining his fingernails than his prospective partner.

“On your knees,” Damar says curtly. The heady warmth of the kanar has already started to fade, and whatever earlier arousal Keevan had stirred has similarly begun to dissipate. Any anticipation or urgency for the act is gone, replaced by a cooled-over resolve to see the deed finished, to be able to have Keevan’s taste lingering on him the next time he is with Weyoun.

Keevan obeys with a speed that is almost mockingly fast, dropping to his knees with an audible thump. He slaps away Damar’s attempt to assist him with the front of his pants, but then quickly relents after half-heartedly trying and failing to find the correct mechanisms to unclasp the codpiece. Once Damar’s cock is freed, he takes it into his mouth without further preamble, resting his hands for stability on the sides of Damar’s thighs as he begins to bob up and down his length. Keevan doesn’t seem particularly interested in doing more than the bare minimum required to get him off – he seems content to let his mouth and throat be used as a hole, and his tongue is limp and immobile. Still, the inside of his mouth is as hot as a solar flare and Damar rocks into the heat, his gaze drifting closed as he tries to lose himself in the motion of it. When his eyes open again he finds Keevan staring up at him with unnerving, unblinking intensity, something wickedly clever glinting in the violet depths of his eyes.

“Should’ve told me you were already fucking Weyoun,” Keevan mumbles around Damar’s cock. Damar’s hips falter mid-way through a shallow thrust.

“It’s not really like that,” he says, dumbly.

Keevan wraps a fist around the base of Damar’s cock and pulls his mouth away, his eyes glowing until they look nearly radioactive. “Your protests to the contrary vex me,” he warns, using the back of his free hand to wipe away the lines of saliva on his lips and cheek. He flashes a bright smile that exposes teeth, and his next words drop into a silky purr. “Don’t worry,” he says, stroking up Damar’s cock with fractionally more grace than he’d bothered with his mouth, “I find it _delightful_. Getting to steal something from that miserable, fawning prick the Founders decided to make their favorite pet? It’s _stimulating_.” He shivers perversely, his eyelids drooping in a display that seems almost blatantly sexual. “I think I understand something of what arousal must feel like for your species,” Keevan is saying wondrously, his grip tightening around Damar’s cock, enough to elicit a low moan. “I _like_ this, Cardassian.” 

At this point, Damar is beginning to have some serious reservations about this entire affair. It’s been ill-advised from the start, but without the effervescent buzz of kanar helping to overcome his better judgment, he’s realizing that intermingling his own dispute with Weyoun with whatever private insecurities Keevan is working out was probably not the healthiest combination. That being said, Keevan is proving to be unexpectedly skillful with his hands, and all things being equal he’d rather end this night with an orgasm. His toes curl in his boots, and his body tenses as Keevan glides his hand along his shaft, his wrist twisting expertly on the descent. He’s more than a little disappointed when Keevan returns his cock to his mouth for the last stretch of this, but no matter – he’s close enough that he’s confident he can force himself to cum regardless of the lackluster quality of the blowjob.

Damar reaches out a hand to cup Keevan’s cheek as he nears the point of no return, closing his eyes as he runs a thumb across the Vorta’s smooth skin. This is a poor substitute for the Vorta he wants, and he allows himself the luxury of picturing Weyoun in Keevan’s place. The mental image of Weyoun on his knees before him, pliant and eager to please, proves enough to finally send him over the edge, and Damar cums with Weyoun’s name on his tongue, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood before it can slip out.

He shudders as Keevan’s mouth slides wetly off of him, and he fumbles as he begins to tuck himself back into his pants, re-clasping the codpiece into place.

“Can I… do anything for you?” he offers awkwardly, still unclear on the proper etiquette where Vorta sexuality is concerned. From what Weyoun has hinted it, orgasm is not a strong motivator in their species, and on the rare occasions when the urge materializes, they tend to prefer to take care of it during masturbation as opposed to partnered activities – for efficiency, Damar assumes. He has grown to suspect that his… arrangement with Weyoun is somewhat atypical; from what he’s managed to gather, most Vorta do not take lovers, but instead approach sex as purely transactional. Weyoun had once implied that it would not be unheard of for a Vorta to, at a Founder’s request, exchange sexual favors to foreign dignitaries or leaders, for the purpose of facilitating diplomatic relations or strengthening pre-existing treaties and alliances. _That_ had been an insinuation Damar had found particularly disturbing, and after he’d drunkenly accused the Founders of being glorified pimps, Weyoun had staunchly declared the subject off-limits, although not without first lobbing back a barbed remark about how Damar’s own _service record_ had extended into the beds of his former commanders.

Keevan swipes a hand over his lips, his expression thoughtful, and he peers down between his legs, giving his cock an experimental squeeze over the fabric of his robes. “No,” he decides at last. He looks up at Damar and bequeaths him with a radiant smile that is dazzlingly sincere for all of two seconds before it begins to crack back into a sarcastic smirk. Languidly, he stands, and places a pale hand against Damar’s shoulder. It’s almost the exact spot where Weyoun had branded him with his own touch, and Damar trembles. A wretched feeling of guilt knots through his guts, and he hates himself for this – the only _loyalty_ Weyoun is owed is Damar’s allegiance to the Dominion, nothing more. His estranged wife is entitled to more fidelity, if only due to the marriage bond that chains them together in the eyes of Cardassian law, and he has never experienced anything _close_ to remorse when he forsakes those covenants with her. The notion that his heart has foolishly decided to elevate Weyoun above the mother of his son sends a flood of nausea through him, so suddenly that bile rises in his throat. 

Keevan’s hand finally drops, and the unwelcome feelings mercifully recede. “That was _sublime_ , Cardassian,” Keevan assures him. “An altogether exquisite experience. And frankly, not one I’m interested in souring with… the base vulgarities of physical sensation. You understand.”

If _understanding_ of the Vorta could be conceptualized as the finish line in a race, Damar fancies himself roughly the equivalent of a runner who tripped and smacked himself into unconsciousness somewhere between his first step and his second. “Of course,” he lies. “I understand.”

Keevan tilts his head to the side and raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Of course,” he echoes. “Well, I’d better get going. The Jem’Hadar squadron I’m overseeing are all absolute dimwits, so I’ve got to make arrangements for my imminent death.” That possibility seems to invoke more exasperation in the Vorta than fear. He smiles sardonically. “If you see my clone, send him my love.”

Damar can’t fathom a circumstance where he’d let Keevan or his replacements get anywhere near him again, but over the past few years all of his worst case scenarios have come true, one-by-one, with a clockwork precision. He decides not to tempt fate by saying anything at all, and merely nods silently.

Later, he will fuck into his own hand and think only of Weyoun, as if that will erase the memory of Keevan’s lips wrapped around his cock, as if that will absolve him of these sickening, nagging sensations of betrayal that burrow within him with sharp teeth. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked that, I now have a Dayoun fic set in this universe, with a surviving Damar and Weyoun 9 3 years after the Dominion war! [march forward to sin again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586445/chapters/70059906)


End file.
